


Bright And Early For Their Daily Races

by tjstar



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Family Drama, Hallucinations, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Sluggish Schizophrenia, anger issues, heredity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: “Hey, Josh,” he pulls his knees to his chest. “Hey,Josh.”Josh takes the joint out of Tyler’s slack fingers.“What?”“Do you know what happened to my mother?”Josh’s face is flushed as he breathes out a smokyyeah.“I’ve been taking sedatives since I hit my puberty. Almost non-stop, almost. And all of it started when I was… Four?Four?Is it even a number?”Josh nods.Tyleris notstoned.





	Bright And Early For Their Daily Races

**Author's Note:**

> **Setting: Stressed Out MV.**

Tyler doesn’t want to come back. He doesn’t want to be surrounded by identical trees and his duffel bag is quite heavy; the strap is chafing his collarbone. And his parents’ house, this sweet, sweet house is mangled. Ironically enough, Tyler is here to fix it, to get back together with his family after a year of silence. It was a good year.

But then his mother decided to incinerate the garage that contained choppy leftover of Tyler’s childhood; the air still smells like a bonfire. It’s gone now. And so is Tyler’s faith. He’s standing by the doorway, and his family is already busy with saving their reputation; Tyler can’t figure out if they’re succeeding.

They don’t even notice him.

“Tyler!”

Or well, they do.

Tyler’s father attempts to squeeze his lungs out of him — he’s got a grip. A tight, tight grip that wouldn’t let Tyler be just himself; his parents weren’t happy to know he wasn’t going to apply to a local college and stay with them, to be a part of their _madness_. But Tyler is not a madman — he can control it. It’s a simple rubber band because he hates wristbands. He’s snapping it way too often so the red lines around his left wrist are almost permanent; he changes the wrist when his mood gets him really bad, and then he’s punishing himself again. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

“Tyler!”

His siblings are just grown up teenagers.

“Hey.”

Tyler sniffles, nearly coughing the ashes back up.

“I woke up to the heat and smell, and Kelly was outside, holding a canister with gasoline — the hem of her nightdress got singed, but she’ll be fine.”

Tyler’s father hugs him again.

Tyler can imagine his mother praying under her breath, playing with matches. He misses her. When Tyler got a call, he didn’t say he was going to come back. He’s had almost everything — his scholarship and his almost regular salary; Tyler’s roommate Nick was an aspiring musician and Tyler had just started taking piano lessons. He was working with Nick’s band like a crew member, also mopping the floors in venues afterwards to get more cash.

Now, Tyler only has a fire-licked wall in front of him.

“It sucks.”

His mother has gotten admitted into a mental hospital because her sluggish schizophrenia has taken a new turn. Tyler’s phone was about to explode due to all the news. His sister Maddy was the only person he kept in touch with, he was responding her emails once a week. Maddy is the next to hug him.

“We thought you were gonna stay… Away from it.”

Tyler was going to ignore them, but then he bought a plane ticket from Berkeley to Columbus, said goodbye to Nick, his professors and the University of California — he’s going to get a lot of problems if he skips a major part of this semester; it’s his second year of education, his assignments are piling high. Tyler’s wrist itches, he keeps scratching it; he can’t wear his rubber band on one hand more than a month. He breaks then, he punches the wall or knocks the reading lamp over; then, he rips the rubber band off to start it over and over again. He’s trying to get better.

His brother’s hand is like a lead on his shoulder.

“Let’s go to the house.”

It’s a miracle they’re still allowed to live there. The house hasn’t gotten combusted, but all the thrash by the northern wall is like a tumor on the ground. They should cure it.

There are pointless apologies, _‘we don’t have much space here, you know’_ ; they have never had spare rooms, but they had too many kids with specific preferences. Tyler would share the room with Zack because Maddy needed _‘her room that would help her turn to a lady’_ but then, there was a baby Jay — and Maddy’s room wasn’t _Maddy’_ s anymore. Tyler was tired of his siblings’ quarrels so he asked his parents for his personal corner in this house.

They acquiesced.

When Tyler turned sixteen, he moved into a pantry where he could barely fit along with his bed and his table, but it was _a big deal_. He could get onto the garage roof out of the window — he’d done it a few times just to breathe freely. It stinks of scorched plastic and cinder now, the posters on the wall have turned to yellowed paper. It would’ve turned to his tomb if he had _stayed_.

The window is just a blind eye, the windowsill is black and charred.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Now Tyler shares a room with Zack again.

Time rushes, Zack isn’t happy about Tyler’s poor ass getting dragged back into his kingdom. Tyler only cares about his father’s gray hair and the reason of it — it’s _heredity_ , the word that has brought too many troubles already. Tyler’s mother was working at a grocery store when she was still sane — he liked to go to work with her when he was a kid, he was going to be a cashier or a grocery bagger. She has always had quirks, she could forget her children in the car and get back fifteen minutes later, crying and apologizing; her forgetfulness kept her away from driving. She never remembered the days of the week and kept calling Jay a _little_ _Zacky_. Their electricity bills were a killer because she couldn’t learn how important turning the lights off was; same with water — they had had a couple of floods in their bathroom. Tyler forgets what he’s doing sometimes, too; he knows what it feels like. Like a hole in your brain.

She was talking about spiders way too much, spiders in their food, in their hair.

Those were little manifestations of a big disease.

Tyler tries not to think of _heredity_.

They’re having a dinner, a parody on it; Tyler takes a spoonful of mustard instead of honey and breaks out in a cold sweat. He decides he doesn’t like honey. They’re eating this stupid corn and green peas, yellow and green look good together. Tyler’s skeleton hoodie is not suitable for a family evening; it has a zipper in the hood and an ugly hole in the sleeve; Tyler doesn’t remember when he got it this screwed.

Zack pokes his food with a fork.

“Do you remember when we lost her?”

It’s one of their family’s stories.

Jay was a silly four-year-old when it happened, when they called the police because Kelly Joseph had just disappeared. It was a spoffish night with lots of Maddy’s tears and with their father pulling his hair out off the reel. They found her ten hours later, in an empty warehouse, huddling into the corner and cradling Jay’s teddy-bear in her arms. Focus of attention had shifted, and her psychiatrist appointments had become the main thing.

Tyler’s basketball team won the season next day, but none of his family members had seen that game.

Their mother has never been deeply religious but she kept going to the church on Sundays and Tyler was there for a company — he wanted to support her. He wasn’t sure if she had ever noticed it. Tyler’s thoughts are dark, the corn suffocates him, he coughs; Maddy rubs his back while he washes the food down with water.

“We have a lot of things to do now.”

_It’s just a way to atone for their sins._

Inner magnet doesn’t let Tyler leave the kitchen.

 

***

“It’s so good my car was still at Dun’s auto repair service.”

Tyler’s father looks around the debris.

Tyler’s back hurts even though he hasn’t moved a single lath.

“Your glass is always half full, right?”

“It’s hard to keep your glass full when your firstborn doesn’t even call you for a year and a half.”

These words don’t sound angry, just bitter.

Tyler has deleted all of his social media profiles.

Their garage was a wooden annexe, wall to wall to their house. The architect was an idiot, most likely — then, Tyler is aware that this house was built by his great-great-grandfather. Tyler kicks a wonky fence, then again, then again until it gets ripped off the rusty nail.

“Stop it.”

As a school principal, Tyler’s father is strict and tough and always stays by his rational side.

“Do you think I’m a coward?”

Silence gives consent.

Silence is an unspoken _‘look, Tyler, your little sister got a summer job at the beauty shop, and Zack is about to get a basketball scholarship and reach for the stars. Jay? Jay is still too young, but he’s definitely going to become someone.’_

Tyler was told: _‘you can’t be a normal person with a mental health like this’_ followed by a quick _‘we care about you’._

Tyler has been an indispensable babysitter for his siblings since he turned seven. His parents didn’t want him to feel _lonely_.

“Get into the car, Tyler.”

They’re going to meet _her_ ; Tyler has never been in a mental hospital before, but a tiny voice in his brain prompts it’s time to get used to it.

 

***

They’re sitting in the park because this clinic is not a prison.

The bench is big enough for the six of them.

“How are you doing, Mom?”

The lines on her face don’t match her real age, but she looks somehow happier because all the neuroleptics have finally worked.

“I regret it.”

She’s getting as much gray hairs as her husband. 

Maddy is babbling about her clients and about how much she enjoys to design people’s nails, and Zack is so excited about the perspective of being a captain and _‘we need a bigger shelf for my golden cups and trophies.’_ Jay says that Zack is his hero and _Tyler screams in his sleep_.

Tyler is ashamed.

Mother takes Tyler’s hand, she grins; his cheek jerks involuntarily, but it doesn’t resemble a smile. Just a muscle spasm.

“I’d never hurt you,” she rustles out. “Don’t be afraid.”

He doesn’t ask what could provoke her into destroying their property.

She doesn’t say anything else except —

“I’m so proud of you.”

All the flowers in the garden don’t help Tyler soothe his mind.

 

***

Neither of them would expect to get one more helper.

A new guy is way too ridiculous with his pink mohawk and his red and black plaid shirt. Like a bright coverage for a colorless soul.

“Hey, I’m Josh, do you remember me? My Mom is sort of… Kelly’s _friend_ , so she sent me here to help you with… Your garage. Oh, and here’s a… A pear pie,” he hands a tinfoil parcel over to Tyler. “Also, my Dad and I… We have almost repaired your car, Mr. Joseph.”

 _Josh_ has a blue Dodge pickup dotted with rusty spots; _Josh_ is like a dog waiting for the order.

“Do you need help?”

“No,” Tyler bristles.

“Yes, actually,” Tyler’s father accepts. “Thank you, Josh.”

Meeting strangers is like crossing the line.

“Good!”

Tyler would never think his mother could befriend a woman who bakes the pies and has a son.

“Your car isn’t big enough. I called the workers, they’re gonna arrive tomorrow, but we need to sort it out.”

Josh responds with a short nod and goes straight to the stack of blackened chipboards beside the northern wall; all the grayish-white panels and planks need to get replaced. Tyler frowns and follows him down the ruins.

“I’ve been there a time or two when your parents needed help,” Josh says.

Tyler officially feels like a piece of shit.

“Thanks… Thank you?”

Josh shakes Tyler’s hand before he comprehends it; Tyler doesn’t squeeze Josh’s palm properly, wiping his fingers on his hoodie as soon as he’s free. Zack and Jay are already dragging spoiled boards away from the cement fundament. It’s almost untouched, but the only standing wall of the garage is about to fall down. They’d be bankrupted if the fire had hopped onto the neighboring houses; their insurance payout barely covers their expenditures so one more pair of hands won’t be superfluous.

Their lawn is like a battlefield.

There are boxes with their toys — little cars and Nintendo Zack broke while fighting with Tyler for playing first. There’s Tyler’s old bike — the saddle and the handlebars are a mess, the brakes cable is too loose. Tyler liked that bike, but _Zack needed it too_ , so they had to share it; there are Maddy’s dolls with ugly makeup and with their hair cut short. They look like voodoo victims. A pack of Pokémon cards is so irrelevant — they couldn’t get the whole collection, but Tyler was proud of this one when he was a kid.

“I have too many siblings,” Tyler concludes.

This wasn’t meant for Josh to hear but he replies instantly —

“Me too!”

 _‘I didn’t ask you, Josh, I didn’t ask you,’_ Tyler looks at the rubber band on his hand and raises his eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Yes! Two younger sisters and a brother.”

Josh takes one of the boards and lays it next to the others.

“Ashley writes poetry, Abby’s really into science, and Jordan… He’s working with our Dad in auto service while I’m here. Yeah,” Josh doesn’t shut up after all, and Tyler feels a tinge of anger rising up inside of him.

He pulls the rubber with his thumb and lets it go with a _pop_.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Not at all,” Josh says. “We’re just a big family.”

“Maybe because your mother didn’t set your garage aflame?”

Tyler is envious. Josh doesn’t look like a sleep-deprived older brother. He’s nothing like Tyler — Tyler still gets this stupid acne on his forehead, and his parents couldn’t afford braces so his bottom teeth form a crooked fence. He bites his inner cheeks until they bleed in his sleep. Although his mother says he’s got nice eyelashes, but they’re still _imperfect_.

Good things are nothing compared to bad everything.

Josh has a prominent bump on the bridge of his nose and a silver ring in his left nostril; his ears are stretched with gauges and he is too confident for a regular auto service worker. Tyler wants to prove himself correct that Josh’s life is a pure American dream.

“Are you studying?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Well. It seems I’m not smart enough.”

“I should’ve noticed,” Tyler quips. “You wouldn’t be hauling this crap everywhere if you were smart.”

“I just need to do something.”

“To show your parents you’re not useless?”

Tyler aims and pulls the trigger.

“I. Am. Not. Useless,” Josh syllables.

He tosses the board across the backyard.

Tyler drops the boxes next to his bike, wheels are squares and the fork is twisted in a weird way. They keep taking the things out of the bow-backed garage, their next step is peeling off the plastering and taking the sliding screen-door out of the frame. The mechanism is broken; this place will never protect anything ever again.

The firefighters couldn’t save much of it.

Tyler throws his head back and looks at the windows in his room; he found a shred of glass in his bed this morning. They’re still waiting for a glazier, but there’s no way Tyler can sleep there.

“Do you have your own room?”

“Yeah. A basement.”

Tyler’s parents would never let him live in the basement.

“Cool.”

“You’re telling me!”

Josh is a little too childish. But he has strong hands; a heap of burnt wood gets smaller. They can’t hire a lot of workers since their mother’s mental health is more important, and Tyler has offered _his own money_ to buy the instruments and items needed for renovation. He thought his father would refuse to take his card, but he only said _thanks_.

Maybe Tyler is a better person than he thought.

 

*** 

Tyler gets back to their room, craving a shower and a dinner that’s waiting for him in the fridge. He kicks the door open and finds Zack rummaging through the contents of his bag yet unpacked.

“Hey?!”

Zack is like a dumb felon with a non-committed crime.

“I’m… Well…”

“Stop mumbling,” Tyler flops down onto the bed. “What did you want?”

Zack’s face and neck are unhealthily ruddy.

“Here’s one girl, a cheerleaders’ captain. She’s got potential.”

Bored, Tyler almost falls asleep.

“And?”

“And? We might have a date tomorrow! And I thought you could help me with…”

Zack sits on the throw-blanket by Tyler’s feet. He’s twisting his fingers nervously and Tyler shoves his bag further under his bed. Zack’s situation requires a lecture, but Tyler is not the one to give sexual education lessons.

“I suppose you know where the babies come from? Good. Try not to make me an uncle until I’m at least thirty.”

If Tyler is a student it doesn’t mean he’s got his pockets full of condoms. He’s never been in a situation that would have obligated him to use one — he labels himself as _pathetic_.

Zack laughs so hard he doubles over.

 

***

Next morning, Josh shows up again.

Tyler can barely open his eyes as if he hasn’t had eight hours of sleep — frigging timezones — he’s missed dinner and breakfast; hot summer air is too viscid for his lungs. Josh is enthusiastic, loading the truck with stumps along with the workers. They have to pay for their every step now, Tyler is upset; this garage has just eaten their family budget. Their neighbors throw glances at them.

“How’s the pie?”

“What?”

“How’s the pie?” Josh repeats with the same intonation.

“I don’t know,” Tyler rubs his nose. “There was just a crumpled tinfoil in the trashcan when I woke up. Ask Jay.”

Jay is talking to the truck’s driver and ends up getting into cabin with a sincere _wow_ resonating through the backyard.

Josh rolls up his sleeves.

“I can bring another one.”

Tyler shakes his head.

“I don’t like pies.”

His stomach grumbles.

“Liar,” Josh elbows him in the ribs. It’s a joke, but Tyler is not a fan of tactile contacts.

He’s not a fan of such early mornings either.

He’s sweating through his black hoodie and skipping the shower yesterday was a mistake. He’s about to get a sunstroke; Josh notices it.

“Take it off.”

It’s so tempting Tyler obeys; Josh’s smirk grows wider because there’s a blue t-shirt underneath, he used to have a dozen of layers on. Tyler straightens up his back to look taller. He’s actually taller than Josh, skinnier due to the lack of chest muscles. But he’s not _that_ skinny — Josh makes him raise his arm and bend it, and reads the verdict —

“Nice bicep.”

Moving the speakers onstage can do that.

They’re waiting for the truck with building materials — it arrives once the truck with the trash leaves the backyard. Tyler is ready to shake off the fetters of dormancy and get the task done. His hands are sweaty in dense gloves as he goes to take a piece of fresh, good-smelling wood with raw edges. His muscles tense up but he doesn’t miss a beat; Josh, Zack and two other workers are unloading the truck.

This is the beginning of the new life.

Tyler is on his third or fourth round when he stumbles over his untied shoelace and his weight drags him forward with enough force for him to lose his balance. He squats down to tie it properly, his board and his gloves are placed next to him.

“Hey, careful! Ty—”

His back cracks, his sunburnt shoulders hurt and sting; his sweat drips into his eyes. And here’s Josh.

“Shit, can you get up?”

The small of Tyler’s back is numb, but the tendrils of pain make the wound wider. There’s the thump of the board hitting the ground, and Josh rips his gloves off; he flips Tyler over, grabbing him roughly under his armpits and making him duck his head to his chest. Josh presses down the spot on Tyler’s shoulder blade, Tyler snarls because there are needles in Josh’s fingertips.

“Do you wanna break my _fucking_ spine?”

Tyler doesn’t cuss too often. But this discomfort is a good excuse.

And Josh says —

“Splinters.”

Tyler huffs into his knuckles pressed to his mouth.

Josh adds —

“I just tripped over. I’m sorry. You have to remove your shirt.”

Josh doesn’t warn Tyler before snatching the hem of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head, wiping the sweat off his neck and temples, then handing it over to Tyler. It’s just a cloth now, torn and blood-stained; Tyler is about to twist his neck, trying to check if the damage matches his sensations. Tyler’s back feels like a pork chop.

Josh’s hands are just two metal bars.

They hurry back to the house; Tyler is just a loser, he’s about to howl at the Sun when a shirtless Zack asks him if he’s okay.

“I’m okay,” Tyler says. To himself mostly.

When they walk past the mirror, Tyler takes a short glance at his injured skin — the bumps of his vertebra are bruise-rimmed, a long and revolting scratch crosses both of his shoulder blades, the blood seeps out of multiple dotted lines.

Dust and dirt don’t make it aesthetic.

“We need to take the splinters out.”

Tyler tosses his t-shirt into a laundry basket and goes to the kitchen; Maddy has forgotten her cosmetic bag on the table so Tyler finds a proper instrument pretty quickly. He apologizes mentally, taking her eyebrow tweezers and giving them to Josh wordlessly.

He can’t do it himself.

“Any sanitizer?”

“Later.”

Tyler sways.

He sits on the chair while Josh washes his hands and takes a wet cloth to clean up all the abrasions. It feels like the splinters only get stuck deeper, and Tyler props his elbows on the table, massaging his temples and his forehead. His eyes are closed when the tweezers clank against the table, and then there’s a touch of cold metal against his bare back.

“A few of them are big.”

“Cool.”

Tyler doesn’t care much. It hurts and he’ll be forced to sleep on his stomach for a day or two — if he’s lucky enough not to get any nightmares. Josh chews his gum and his measured moves lull Tyler to slumber, but the creaking of the front door shakes him awake in seconds.

“I dropped the trowels and wood putty beside the veranda. Oh? Hello, Josh,” Tyler’s father barges into the kitchen with a grocery bag in his hands. “What happened?”

“Veranda,” Tyler says belatedly. “Got it.”    

Josh stops poking his back with tweezers.

“Mr. Joseph, I can explain—”

Tyler looks at the bloodied cloth on the table. They should’ve moved to the bathroom.

“I fell. Slipped and fell, yeah. Josh helps me take the splinters out.”

Josh chokes on his unsaid words while Tyler’s father inspects Tyler’s injuries. Tyler doesn’t move.

“Be careful.”

“Sure. You can continue your _shopping_.”

Tyler is not surprised when his father purses his lips and goes out of the kitchen with a _‘I’m serious’._ Josh doesn’t warn Tyler before continuing — Tyler jerks and his pain emerges; he swallows his profanities.

“Oops. Sorry.”

Tyler wishes the tiger on the front of his shirt could eat Josh alive.

 

***

New windows in Tyler’s pantry have the glazier’s fingerprints of them. Tyler can make the glass pristine.

But not himself.

In the evening, his father asks him if his back hurts. Tyler feels like he’s been lying on a bunch of different nails, but he’s too _brutal_ to admit it. His wrist is all red as the rubber spanks his skin; all the family members stare down at their plates, ignoring it. Zack is on his phone in the hallway, Jay is talking about the new video game he wants to get for his Birthday. Maddy pats Tyler’s hand, offering to repair his t-shirt.

Their father says —

“I’m gonna spend more time controlling the process.”

“How great is that.”

The accident wasn’t anyone’s fault.

They say all the goodnights and crawl to their rooms.

The only clean t-shirt Tyler has in his bag is a white one, so he turns in front of the mirror to check if the blood has soaked through the fabric.

Zack appears in the doorframe with a witty remark —

“Scratches on your back add fifty points to your masculinity.”

Wide grazes itch, Tyler wants to scrub the skin until it bleeds again.

“Josh is a clumsy crud.”

This statement can have the second meaning; he doesn’t get it.

 

***

Josh always comes by 8:15 am, but one day he’s not there. He doesn’t come when it’s 8:30 or 9:00. Tyler is waiting, sitting on the curb; the scab on his back begins to peel off and the skin underneath is so tender — he wants Josh to see it.

“I can call Laura and ask her about Josh,” his father offers.

“No,” Tyler drops Josh’s gloves he’s been holding. “I don’t want her to think that we only need him just because he is our personal Suffolk Punch.”

Josh deserves some rest. Tyler sticks to this thought as they begin to build up the carcass, and it goes too slowly — Tyler leans his back against the rough wood, nearly re-opening his scratches.

Zack insists on being more attentive.

One more day goes without Josh in their backyard, and Tyler regrets he didn’t get Josh’s number — he could’ve just started with _‘hey bro, are you dead?’_ and Josh would reply _‘not funny.’_ Tyler’s phone is clueless.

Jay peels off a banana.

“You can go to him then.”

Jay is the only kid in their family who likes bananas.

Tyler tears in between _‘shut up’_ and _‘don’t tell me what to do’_.

“Go and eat in the kitchen.”

Jay opens his mouth, full of yellow mush.

Tyler retches.

He’s not trying to steer clear of work today, he feels like a fool about remembering Josh’s address. His family lives a few blocks away, in the suburbs, and Tyler hopes he wouldn’t end up lying there on the street with a knife in his liver. He avoids awkward questions, sneaking out of the garage and galloping in the opposite direction while Zack and Jay are too busy dividing the billets with the chainsaw.

Tyler is a runaway.

He uses the maps in his phone to find the right house he recognizes by the metal plate _Dun_ on the mailbox. The color of it matches the red bricks the house is made of — there are a few pet bowls beside the front door, a fat tabby cat licks its paw and washes its ears sitting on the railings. Tyler strokes its head automatically; the cat purrs. Tyler has never been a cat person or an animal person in general — but petting the cat is a good procrastination. He doesn’t want to ring the bell but he does, getting ready to go away if no one opens the door on the second ring.

When it opens though, Tyler’s soul falls through his toes.

The woman in the doorframe gives him a timid smile.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“You’ve made friends with Lynx.”

“Oh?”

“The cat,” the woman says. “He’s a friendly boy.”

Lynx rubs himself against Tyler’s pant leg, leaving his fur all over the denim.

“Is Josh home?”

Lynx sharpens his claws on the door mat.

“Sure! You must be Tyler? I’ve seen you on Kelly’s pictures,” she bustles around him. “Come in, come in, come in! Josh!” she yells as soon as they step over the threshold. “Joshua, what did I say about calling the Josephs and warning them? Why does Tyler have to come here to check you out?”

“It’s fine, really,” Tyler mutters.

He wants to hide in this lovely fireplace with the Dun children’s photos on top of it.

“He’s upstairs,” Mrs. Dun explains. “Came down with the cold a few days ago. Josh!”

Her voice is like a steam siren. Tyler wonders how such a small woman can be so loud.

Josh is all groggy when he appears on the top of the stairs.

“What?”

He looks more alarm when he sees Tyler.

“Hey?”

“Okay boys, I’m not going to interrupt you anymore. Josh, try not to get Tyler sick,” Mrs. Dun leaves them alone.

“She’s a hurricane,” Josh yawns. “Wanna come to my room?”

“You said you didn’t have a room.”

“I can’t keep sleeping in the basement with the fever over 102o , dude.”

Josh’s room is a mess of books and CDs; there are two beds with quilts thrown over them — Tyler is not the only one who is temporarily sharing a room with his brother. Josh’s t-shirt has big stars on it — white on deep-blue, all the constellations are set in the wrong way.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I thought it wasn’t necessary.”

“I’d bring you a _get well_ card,” Tyler smirks. “How did you manage to catch a cold in the summer?”

Josh looks at the thermometer on the chair beside his bed.

“I’m talented.”

“But seriously, how?”

“You’re too cold, Tyler.”

“I _am_ , but you’re hot.”

“I know.”

“I mean you’ve got a fever.”

Both of them snigger then, Josh ends up sneezing into his palms.

“I just got a headache and chills, and… I thought you wouldn’t notice my absence,” Josh sniffles.

Tyler gives him a pack of tissues from the table.

“Believe me, we noticed. I like the bags under your eyes. It’s _so_ punk rock.”

Josh’s pink hair is greasy, his clothes don’t look tidy either — every tiny detail screams that he hasn’t simulated his sickness.

“Your cat is cool,” Tyler says.

“It’s not our cat, it’s — we’re feeding them, and all the cats from our neighborhood think our house is a restaurant.”

Josh laughs, Tyler laughs along with him.

Josh wipes his nose then coughs.

The lilies on his windowsill look sad.

“Okay. Feel better, and… I need to come back and help my father, yeah,” Tyler fidgets on the bed awkwardly.

Josh gets it.

“Sure! I’ll be back once I can breathe again.”

Tyler’s heart is not that heavy when he storms out of the room.

Mrs. Dun catches him in the hallway and makes him eat a giant piece of her pear pie; Tyler admits he’s lied when he said he didn’t like sweets.

He gets back home with a crumb of powdered sugar sticking to the corner of his mouth.

 

***

Days without Josh are boring.

But Tyler would rather them keep going this way when he wakes up to an incoming message ringtone. His nape hair stands on end when he unlocks his phone.

 **_Mom:_ ** _Youhav eto co mean dfindm e_

He’s dumbstruck, he doesn’t know what to do so he reads it to his father.

“She wants us to meet her again.”

They’ve planned it on Saturday, but they have to rush since she’s already allowed to use her phone. They talk to her nurses, they talk to her therapist, talk to her. She looks better but a little high as she hugs all five of them again.

“You grew up.”

She still needs to heal her nerves and _that sanatorium for special patients_ would be a great choice.

Tyler’s father turns pale when he sees the price.

“It’s better for her to stay away from the garage not to traumatize her,” her therapist says.

Still pale, Tyler’s father signs the papers.

This evening, they eat frozen pizza and have their coffee without milk.

 

***

Current events get on Tyler’s nerves; when he meets Maddy at her workplace and leads her back home, he’s on the edge.

He’s on the edge when Maddy asks him about his mood.

He’s on the edge when he doesn’t respond.

She keeps talking about nail polish and nails sculpting. He doesn’t listen. His attention is locked on a group of guys with bottles of beer in their hands, and Maddy’s wearing a light dress, light shoes; they’re scurrying away when one of the dudes shouts —

“Good ass, kitty!”

And another one jeers —

“I’d have some fun with you.”

All three of them are drunk, and they don’t turn their words to actions, but the train of Tyler’s thought comes off the rails. Maddy urges him to keep going and _‘Tyler, it’s not worth it’_ but he’s here to protect his sister’s dignity.

“What?!”

The dude in front of Tyler grins.

Tyler pushes him in the chest, making him stagger away.

“Your gal has a lovely booty.”

Tyler pushes him once more while two others laugh.

“I bet she looks good on her knees too —”

Tyler’s fist reacts better than his brain does; it’s supposed to leave a pothole in the dude’s lithic skull, but it only makes his head loll.

“She’s my sister. And she’s _sixteen_ , you know?”

Maddy’s _‘Tyler, no!’_ drowns in the thud of a punch ricocheting back to Tyler, and then he’s being captured by a pair of hands while his sternum and his gut turn to perfect targets for the other guy to reach. Maddy’s interrupting them, pleading them to _let him go_ and one of the dudes twists her forearms, pinning her hands behind her back.

“What else, freak?”

He spills the beer all over Tyler’s hoodie, his jeans are sprinkled too; he lashes out and kicks the bully in the hip. This blow is returned to him; the joints in Tyler’s shoulders crack as he writhes, he gets out of the drunken grip and blocks out a few jabs.

Maddy’s mascara is smudged down her tear-streaked cheeks.

Tyler is blindsided, the shadow swipes directly into his cheekbone; his teeth clank, his brain shudders and the ground is closer than he thought. He’s being dragged across the dirty asphalt, he’s being pulled upright again; he’s winded, his dust-tasting saliva hangs from his chin.

“It’s that mad bitch’s son,” the voice rattles. “I swear I’m gonna burn your fucking house down,” Tyler is being told, yelled at.

“It will not make your penis bigger.”

He is proud of this one.

He’s now getting clobbered for being _Kelly’s son_ and for having a big mouth. He laughs and they lumber him down, in the alley, and the houses’ owners don’t give a shit despite Maddy’s hysterical shrieking. They stomp on his throat, stomach, groin — he nearly throws up once.

He never begs for mercy, it comes all of the sudden.

“Let’s go.”

Their footsteps confirm their words.

Tyler pulls the hood up and tugs the laces; he’s semi-conscious and _half-hard_ despite his misery; Tyler giggles, disintegrating. His abdomen aches.

“They didn’t touch me,” Maddy says, but the bruises blossoming on her arms say otherwise. She stoops down, her loose hair tickles Tyler’s cheek. “Get up, please, get up.”

Tyler needs ice and a good cry but he can’t afford any of it.

He’s the shittiest bodyguard in history.

But he’s so satisfied he doesn’t lean on Maddy’s shoulder as they plod back home.

 

***

Tyler’s hood can’t cover deep scrapes on his chin, and Maddy’s puffy eyes are the mirrors of her soul. She cries on their father’s chest while Tyler pulls his hoodie up and contemplates the bottom-of-the-sneaker-shaped bruise above his belt.

“Wow.”

Jay holds his hand in front of Tyler’s face.

“How many fingers do you see?”

Tyler flips him off.

“How many fingers do _you_ see?”

Their father interposes himself between them.

“Go to your room. Both of you.”

“Go eat a banana,” Tyler quips.

“Tyler!” Maddy hollers.

“Come on, I’m not even allowed to speak in my house? Really? What about the democracy and stuff then? I’m paying taxes and the asphalt still doesn’t feel nice rubbing against my face. Just great.”

He’d spew out something else, but the _‘what happened’_ question hits him like a hammer.

“I got into a fight.”

His clothes reek of beer and sweat.

“Tyler just wanted to protect me —”

“…and just wanted to compete,” Tyler finishes for her. “I liked provoking them, you know? For adrenaline.”

“Why did you do that? You’re not a warrior; I don’t want to lose you, son —”

“Lose me? Dad, you notice me only when I’m bleeding!”

The heel of Tyler’s palm is red as he dabs at his lip.

“I want you to stop bleeding then. Go take a shower and then we’ll talk about your behavior. University was supposed to turn you to an adult, and what am I getting? Another nervous breakdown?”

Tyler rolls his eyes and rips the hood off his face for his father to gape at the sight of it. He mutters something about _‘concussed again’_ to Tyler’s hunched back as he toddles to the bathroom; the last time he had actually gotten concussed he was seven, he fell off the swings on the playground and woke up to his mother stuffing tissues to his bloody nose.

His nose doesn’t bleed at the moment.

Tyler’s reflection is a wreck — his tanned skin doesn’t save him from getting bruised, his facial hair doesn’t grow properly, forming something like a goatee beard on his bloodied chin, skin irritated after shaving. His lip is busted and swollen, his teeth have ripped it from the inside, each lick against it tastes like copper. Tyler tugs the hood back on, it’s his fleece armor, but his cheeks are still exposed and so is his blackeye; blue-red marks on Maddy’s arms surface in his imagination.

The mirror is his enemy.

Not weighing the _rights_ and the  _wrongs_ , Tyler slams his head against the mirror repeatedly, he wants to crack it, then crack the cracks; a silver-coated flake falls into the sink and shatters — it only creates more of his reflections, gawping at him, judging him. It’s a maze and Tyler bangs his head against the door of the cupboard with leftover glass.

He’s not aware of screaming behind him, of the hands wrapped around him. Tyler can’t breathe and his eyes turn to prisms, he’s scared of his own image; he’s about to burst up, but he’s empty.

“Tyler, please.”

His legs weaken underneath him.

“Tyler, I’m here, do you hear me?”

His mind is covered with the shell, his tongue is numb.

 “Tyler.”

And once again —

“Tyler.”

The sink is not so terrifying anymore and Tyler sinks in, down into his father’s arms as they slump down to the bathroom floor together. Tyler is being cradled to his father’s chest like a baby, his hood stays on, but his head is bowed. When Tyler looks up, he only sees the deep wrinkles around his father’s distorted mouth, his lips keep moving, but the ringing in Tyler’s ears muffles every noise except his heartbeat. His father is murmuring an old lullaby as their bodies rock like pendulums, back and forth, back and forth.

A tidal wave of panic subsides.

Slowly, second by second, Tyler is coming back.

 

***

He is wearing his rubber band on his right wrist now. He keeps snapping it, it doesn’t help. They’re spending too much time in their backyard like a free TV show for their neighbors. Tyler wants to put on a sign _‘It’s a private property!’_ and throw an empty RedBull can at that too curious old lady from the opposite house.

“Good morning, Mrs. Flowers,” he greets her instead.

Mrs. Flowers is wearing an old-fashioned white veil hat.

“Good morning, Tyler.”

People spread rumors that she was an actress, that she makes stuffed toys out of her dead pets — it reminds Tyler of that _Tales from the Crypt_ episode, but he can never be sure if it’s a lie. Tyler ruined Jay’s childhood with that story.

Tyler looks up at the sunny sky.

“The weather’s just great, isn’t it?”

Manners maketh man, but Mrs. Flowers doesn’t keep up a dialogue.

“I saw Maddy yesterday. She’s such a good girl; she helped me get my groceries into my car.”

“And?”

“I saw her hands. Those terrible, terrible bruises. Then, I came closer to your house; I wanted to ask Zack and Jay to be quiet, but the scratches on their legs distracted me. And now it’s _you_ ,” she says affectedly. “I know, Chris is an impulsive man and your mother’s illness is a tragedy, but… it’s not a solution. I heard the screaming the other day and my husband had to rip the phone out of my hand.”

The more she talks, the longer Tyler’s face gets.

“Oh, my boy.”

Her deep purple nail pokes Tyler’s shiner that is still a plethora of colors; his lips still bleed when he stretches them too wide. And Tyler’s _smiling_ now, smudging red down his bottom teeth — they would have been even redder if he had bitten this woman’s throat.

Pity and anger walk hand-to-hand.

“I have news for you, too: I saw your husband and his barely legal paramour last week, but I’m not prying into it,” Tyler catches her puzzled glance. “Oh. I see you’re not good at drawing parallels?”

If Mrs. Flowers’ past is a dark mystery, her private life is transparent — being married to a man in his thirties has pros and cons, but all the pros belong to him — he gets the house when she dies.

And she gets just a vile cheating.

And she’s had too many facelift surgeries that her appearance has gotten stuck at the British Queen’s stage.

She’s as red as a mummified tomato.

“I’m sorry, but he has natural desires, different from playing board games with you all the evening,” Tyler clicks his tongue.

She clenches her fists.

Zack and Jay are picking up the instruments that have spilled out of the bag; Zack waves friendly at Mrs. Flowers.

“What an obnoxious family,” she waves back with her fist. “I’ll call social services.”

Tyler crosses his fingers in front of her nose.

“Good luck. Have a nice day.”

She tries to move gracefully, but it mostly looks like a ritual dance of a witch.

Tyler is glad that not only his family is weird.

They spend the day peeling off the plastering from the wall connected to their future garage; Tyler doesn’t tell their father about Mrs. Flowers’ visit. They don’t talk about the mirror-incident either, but the void in the cupboard door will always be a sick landmark.

Mrs. Flowers licks up her mental wounds by the evening, only to materialize by their front door again.

“I’m personally offended with your firstborn’s behavior.”

Tyler bites his lip not to laugh as he stands behind his father’s back. He’s as big as a bear compared to Mrs. Flowers’ mousy frame.

“What has he done again? Tyler?”

Tyler dodges this dubious question.

“We went through some… misunderstandings.”

“He insulted my _Branny!”_

Tyler’s father scratches his stubble.

“Is it your dog?”

“No, my husband!”

“Ah, that veteran of all the clubs’ VIPs.”

Tyler is not the only one who can’t keep his tongue behind his teeth.

“Branny is a saint!”

“What did you say? Insane?” Tyler puts his palm to his ear to hear her better.

His father struggles to suppress his smile.

“I’m not an adherent of such strict norms of upbringing, but maybe this is an exception,” Mrs. Flowers mewls.

She points her forefinger at Tyler’s blackeye.

Tyler’s father’s facial expression is a pure bewilderment.

“Maybe it’s a way to raise your boys like men, but your _daughter_ … She’s so polite, is she even dating anyone? No? She’s a standard of innocence.”

If Mrs. Flowers had seen Maddy rocking to Black Sabbath in her earbuds, she’d change her opinion all at once.

“What do you mean?”

Tyler’s father knows what she means but he gives her a second chance.

“Don’t be too rude with her. She’s a sweet child. And the boys… Zack uses too many swear words, Jay kicked the ball into my flowerbed; Tyler doesn’t understand a simple human language, so maybe a little barbarian ways can make him a better person, and your wife —”

No one lets her finish.

“Get out,” Tyler’s father says calmly. “Get out, or I swear I’ll make you join my wife in the clinic. Are you sure your _Branny_ would pay all the way through your treatment?”

She opens her mouth like a landed fish, but the door is closed when she begins to speak. Tyler wants to give a highfive to his father on their deal and he does while his father lets out a thoughtful —

“I hope she isn’t going to turn me to a scarecrow in her garden.”

 

***

He knows there’s someone at the door.

Tyler was four when he saw glowing eyes in the wall of his room for the first time — they were twinkling, observing him. Tyler couldn’t understand why his parents didn’t see them, their eyelashes were dripping bloody tears. Then, there was a man who was asking Tyler about his visions, but they weren’t just dreams, they were real. The man was sad about it.

Tyler’s pills made the eyes vanish.

But now, they are back.

A powerful jerk of his shoulder makes Tyler blink and peer into the darkness. The eyes are invisible now, yet skulking in the corners; Tyler swallows down his yelp, but there’s the gleaming of an iris so he’s about to scream again.

“Sh,” Zack clamps his palm over Tyler’s lips. They are damp, bleeding again. “You don’t want to wake them up.”

Tyler thinks he’s talking about the eyes so he nods.

“Ty? What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

Tyler pushes Zack’s hand away from him and rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his pillow to his face. Zack wants to help, so _‘let it out’_ but not even Tyler’s psychiatrist could make him talk.

Zack is not a psychiatrist.

“Try not to wet the bed when it happens next time.”

Tyler is going to punch him tomorrow. 

 

***

“Get up, Donnie Darko.”

Maddy’s voice is the best alarm clock; a perspective of waking up to a _bad dream_ is a nightmare itself. She smiles as Tyler says _good morning_ ; Tyler is saved until the night covers the ground. He braids Maddy’s hair, he’s good at it. Tyler is ready for their daily races, bright and early; too early or too bright — his head pulsates, he hasn’t had such bad headaches for years. He doesn’t want to let _them_ know he’s damaged.

And paranoid.

Tyler enters the bathroom and finds an orange bottle that contains his salvation, his mother’s pills, he knows her dosage. He knows _his_ dosage. He takes one and swallows it dry; he might get back for another one later, the word _codeine_ dings in his ears, calls for him. Then, there’s the breakfast — cereal, apple juice and Zack’s worried glance for dessert; the rest of their family didn’t hear Tyler screaming last night.

_But the eyes are back._

Tyler’s phone buzzes, he’s not actually allowed to use it at the table, but he neglects this rule; the back of his head is an open wound as he reads the message.

 **_Mom:_ ** _do ntletth emta keyou_

He deletes it without replying.

 

***

Bill Dun parks their car in the driveway.

Tyler spies on them out of the window in the living room — they shake hands and Tyler’s father tries to put a bunch of crumpled bills onto Bill’s palm. Bill raises his empty hands up, shaking his head and walking away.

Tyler closes the blinds.

Tyler’s fears don’t shrink.

As promised, he consumes one more pill; Maddy points out his paleness. It’s hard to look pale for a tanned guy, but Tyler has nailed it. Josh is still not there; the hours of working trudge one by one, and no one talks about cats. Tyler can’t handle a constant drilling, and thumping, and screeching — he finds himself sitting on the lawn and rolling a cold can of Coke against the back of his neck. It doesn’t relieve the pain.

He might turn to his mother’s copy.

He’s enduring it, getting woozy by the evenings, and all these talks about their budget and financial income annoy him — he’s learned all of this at University, same words and same problems; Tyler doesn’t appreciate his father’s aspiration to gather all of his kids around him.

It’s degrading.

Because Tyler is not a trustworthy person. Zack blabbered it out once — _‘I’m afraid Tyler is up to something stupid’_ and Tyler got his pockets gutted straight away. Kitchen drawer became a prison for all the knives; their parents checked Tyler’s arms and wrists, and his _thighs._ They counted every scratch on his body.

Tyler doesn’t want to be That Psycho; he needs his pills back.

But their bills are crying.

TV in the living room is working, chips are crunching, and Tyler zips his skeleton hood down, so his mouth and his chin are the only visible parts.

“Tyler?”

His father is a funny outline, deformed by the reticulated slits for the eyes.

“Who’s doing the dishes today?”

Tyler twiddles with a plastic slider again.

“I have no idea. Mads? Jay?”

It’s his turn, actually. They don’t have any clean mugs or plates left; their kitchen sink and a countertop are all cluttered up. He’s cognizant of it, but he hasn’t gotten the job done. Tyler focuses hard and realizes that this day’s events have been blown away, erased. His mind is blank, his palms are sweaty, but he doesn’t bat an eye.

“Zack? Yeah, I’m sure it’s Zack.”

He gets an immediate reply —

“Shut up, my shift was yesterday!”

“What a lazy ass,” Tyler sighs melancholically.

Their mother has experienced memory-losses too.

Tyler’s brain is full of spiders.

“Show me your face, Tyler.”

Tyler huffs like a stubborn kid when his father rips the hood off his head. His lip doesn’t heal as he keeps biting it, his cheek is green and yellow.

“Don’t touch. Me,” Tyler cocks his head, the medicine builds an inner wall.

Therapies and support groups are just money-eaters.

“Listen to me.”

“No.”

“Tyler.”

“What?”

“I think… You need another psychiatrist appointment, you’ve been so nervous recently, and I’m scared,” his father rubs his shoulder. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

Tyler flinches as the rubber bangs against his skin.

“You lost me when I was five,” he sputters. He doesn’t care about the amount of saliva he’s been holding in his mouth.

His father _doesn’t know_ anything about his nightmares.

“Son, wait —”

“I’m so sick of it,” Tyler _is_ sick. And so is Tyler’s mind.

His father tries to stop him, snatching him by his sleeve, his finger gets into the hole but Tyler rips it out, scurrying to the front door before he explodes inside of this house. He might strike it down with the lightning just like his mother did — they have a mental connection. His siblings might be afflicted by this _curse_ as well, it haunts their family, and _God knows_ when Zack or Maddy or Jay would step onto the path of psychosis.

Their mother wouldn’t be so proud.

And Tyler leaves, heaving out a _‘I need to get out’_ and getting a timid _‘wait’_ from Maddy who wipes her tears with her pink apron.

Tyler slams the door shut, all the glassy parts jiggle.

The ruins of the garage look like ugly origami in twilights.

The heat is suffocating.

 

***

Tyler is getting tired of everything.

Soon enough, he’s too exhausted to keep wandering the streets; the trees turn to the creepiest shapes of the monsters, the eyes of the stars wink at him from the sky. Tyler keeps massaging his neck, he’s about to swoon; he sits down onto the sidewalk, crossing his ankles. He’s cold, his insides are frozen but his skin is clammy; this is not the worst condition, but his vision begins to double. Tyler deliberates, then gets up and goes down the route he once learned; he meets people on his way, couples kissing under the streetlamp. It’s gross. Tyler doesn’t like close contacts, his skin is too porous to absorb all the dirt.

Tyler is wearing his band on his _left_ wrist.

He walks and walks and walks, feet drowning in invisible sand, his thighs ache. The red-bricked house appears in front of him like a castle from that Mario game.

“Tyler!”

Mrs. Dun is still too loud.

Tyler hides his face behind a skeleton mask.

“Honey, are you okay?”

“Don’t call my father,” Tyler pleads. “Please.”

Tyler wants to fall into her embrace and cry, he wants to scoot. Mrs. Dun’s holding a pack of cat food; Lynx is purring and munching on his snack as other cats are dancing by her feet, shoving their noses into the bowls and eating. They try to run when Tyler approaches the porch.

“Blacky, Freckle,” Mrs. Dun calls. “It’s our friend.”

Tyler would never kick any of them. He feels like one of them now.

“Can I stay?”

Otherwise this night is going to digest him.

“Sure, sure, come in,” she doesn’t touch him, turning the doorknob.

Tyler’s hood is still zipped up, but Mrs. Dun glances at the scab on his chin. Tyler quivers, hugging his shoulders then tucking his palms under his armpits. It’s a fever, he’s dizzy. Mrs. Dun leads him to the kitchen, not bothering to ask him if he’s hungry — here’s chamomile tea and honey, a pile of cookies on the plate. Tyler doesn’t identify the taste, he doesn’t finish a half of his meal, leaning against the back of a chair and letting his eyelids droop.

“Mom!”

Tyler winces. The girl standing in front of him might think he’s a burglar. Or a fan of Halloween.

“Mom, he’s sleeping in the kitchen!”

Tyler can’t figure out if it’s Abby or Ashley but she has a septum piercing.

Mrs. Dun comes back in a rush, muttering a hushed _‘the boy is tired’_ and the walls stretch, made of bubblegum. Tyler is suddenly envious of their garage — too much concrete, it wouldn’t get swallowed by fire. No one is going to set it ablaze.

“You can sleep in a guest room. The bathroom’s the first door on the left.”

There’s the couch, one more quilt and pillow added, and Tyler needs to sleep the pain off. He says a quick _goodnight_ and he’s scared that the eyes could follow him, he doesn’t want to scream at night again.

“I’ll be upstairs in case you need anything. Don’t be afraid.”

“Thank you.”

Tyler has always been afraid of waking his mother up in the middle of the night when he was sick, she would scare him back with her abnormally hysterical _‘what happened?_ ’ and Tyler would start to cry. He thought that dying of chickenpox would be much better than dying of fright.

Tyler hears the laughing next door and imagines Josh’s other sister and brother starting a pillow fight. He’s never had pillow fights with his siblings.

“I can give you Josh’s clothes for a night if you want.”

Tyler doesn’t want it.

Mrs. Dun doesn’t insist.

 

***

Getting his head empty is a sick bliss, so when it fills up with words again, Tyler panics. His heart is hammering as he’s getting pulled out of his dreamless sleep.

“Hey, Tyler.”

“Hey, Josh.”

Josh keeps his voice low.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“For _me?”_

“Yes. Get up.”

They move carefully, like two thieves in a jewelry shop not to get spotted by the laser traps and cameras. Tyler’s softened brain has made him way too obedient.

“Where are we going?”

“To the basement of my adult life.”

They sneak outside, because Duns’ house doesn’t have a way to the basement from the inside.

“I barricaded the door myself,” Josh says proudly. “Used some cement even.”

Cement is a drastic measure.

 _Cellar door_ is the most beautiful phrase, but it looks even better in real life. Josh’s keys jingle as he opens it, there’s the staircase and the only source of light is a single bulb on the ceiling.

“Not a five stars hotel room, but I think it’s still pretty nice,” Josh points at the mattress on the floor and Tyler sits down. He’s fallen asleep with his Vans on, so now he feels dumb.

Tyler rubs his shins, scraping the lines the ribbed cuffs of his socks left there.

“I like it.”

He’d like it even if it was _zero_ stars — the eyes can’t reach for him there. Josh taps his fingers on his gym shorts’ pocket.

“Okay then. Let’s not dilly-dally.”

“You sound like your Mom.”

“Maybe, but my Mom wouldn’t offer you this,” Josh pulls out a joint, a bit crumpled, weighing it on his palm.

Tyler has seen dudes smoking the weed in the clubs and after the shows, but never this close. He’d never think Josh was one of them all the time.

“Wow.”

“Wanna try?”

The joint is clamped between his teeth when the spark of a lighter licks the end of it. Josh takes a long drag; Tyler thinks of the pills he’s taken, and he doubts the drug in his system would make a prefect company for them.

“I don’t want to end my life locked up in an asylum.”

“And who says you’re going to?”

Josh sits beside, there’s a gap between them. Josh always keeps distance. Tyler sniffs the air — the locker room smelled much worse after the ass-kicking basketball games. Later, some of the players were stealing alcohol from their parents’ mini-bars to either celebrate the victory or drown their sorrows. But Tyler wasn’t a part of that community anymore.

“I’ve never gotten drunk.”

Tyler responds his own question, not Josh’s.

“Went to Uni and spent a whole year studying?” Josh relaxes already, playing with the joint on his fingertips.

“Yeah. Also, working. I had plans for doing _forbidden_ things, but I had to come back, so maybe… My hometown would help me.”

The only thing Tyler can think about is a scintillating dot a few inches away. He raises his hand, hesitant, but Josh passes him the joint wordlessly, and Tyler doesn’t want to lose his courage — he sucks the steam in, he coughs so hard the house shakes along with him.

Josh doesn’t laugh, doesn’t rub his back, waiting for Tyler to wipe his teary eyes.

“Try once again.”

Josh doesn’t instigate him to do it, but Tyler’s lips form a thin line as he swallows the cloud he exhales. Tyler has never done a lot of things, but he’s smoking his first blunt, scared shitless. He can’t comprehend if he’s high yet, but he needs to share some of his secrets with Josh.

“Hey, Josh,” he pulls his knees to his chest. “Hey, _Josh_.”

Josh takes the joint out of Tyler’s slack fingers.

“What?”

“Do you know what happened to my mother?”

Josh’s face is flushed as he breathes out a smoky _yeah_.

“I’ve been taking sedatives since I hit my puberty. Almost non-stop, almost. And all of it started when I was… Four? _Four?_ Is it even a number?”

Josh nods.

Tyler _is not_ stoned.

“You hit your puberty at the age of four?”

Tyler giggles, biting the back of his hand.

“It started when I was four but had gotten worse once I hit my puberty.”

“Oh,” Josh says musingly. “Your train of thought is so… It’s like a zigzag.”

Tyler isn’t sure if it’s a compliment but he thanks Josh anyway.

“What about your Mom?”

Josh wiggles his toes.

“She will not bother us. Maybe, she’ll kill me tomorrow though.”

He doesn’t say _us_.

The wall behind Tyler’s back is like a heater; he unzips his hood and throws it back, lifting his head up for the first time. He’s _hot_ for the first time.

“Do you know the way all the meds affect your private life?”

Josh stutters.

“N-no.”

The more Tyler smokes the more of a blabbermouth he becomes.

“I couldn’t find the things that would turn me on, you know? I’d been experimenting, but all the porn was gross, and all the real boobs were way too inaccessible,” the words bite his lips. “Holy crap, what am I talking about?”

And Josh simply says —

“Tell me more.”

And Tyler wants to tell him about the fight, about the way he was almost aroused before that panic attack brought him down.

“Sometimes, there’s too much adrenaline, too much. I wanna slit my throat to let it out, you know?” Tyler presses the edge of the palm to his neck. “I’m not like this, not suicidal, but _what if?”_

Tyler is sure Josh has smoked this story out of his mind already, because his next question is nonsense.

“But what about cheerleaders?”

“Not my type.”

“Same.”

Josh’s basement is as hot as Hell, Tyler wavers the hem of his ripped hoodie to let the air brush over his stomach. Sweat trickles down his back, permeates the waistband of his jeans, his underwear.

“Would you mind if I…” he pulls his hoodie up.

“Go ahead,” Josh replies. “I’m pretty sweaty too.”

Josh’s striped polo is removed along with Tyler’s skeleton hoodie, forming a pile on the floor. Josh pokes the roach into the concrete wall, snuffing it out; he takes another roll-up and the lighter comes back to life again. Tyler sucks the joint, his jeans are too thick and the thought of having less layers hits him all of the sudden. Tyler pops them open with one hand while he can’t get enough of the bubbling in his lungs that slowly levels up to his head again, the basement spins.

“Name one thing from your childhood,” he demands.

“Pear pies?”

Josh pulls his shorts down. Tyler thinks it’s a way to maintain him.

“Now you?”

Tyler lies down on the mattress, putting his arm behind his head.

“Stomachaches.”

“Were you a sick kid?”

“No,” Tyler outstretches his hand. When the joint is here, he continues. “My mother wanted me to become a professional basketball player. I had to shoot five hundreds hoops or _‘sorry dear, there’s no dinner’_. I was so fucked up.”

Josh is perplexed.

“Isn’t it… an abusive way?”

“Tell it to an eight-year-old who’s ready to break his back to get some attention. Sure thing, I thought it was a right way, I tried so hard, but the hoop was so high and I wasn’t tall enough. Zack tried to bring something from the kitchen to our room, but I felt like I didn’t deserve it. When I fainted for the first time, my father told her to stop torturing me.”

Tyler doesn’t add that he had also fainted during his graduation speech at school and had to skip his prom because of a crippling headache.

Josh puffs out a ghost of a ring.

“And what’s next?”

“Everything had settled down when I started taking my pills and had to eat regularly.”

Josh hunches his shoulders, Tyler spots a few pimples on his back, red and dried and lost in a placer of freckles.

“I was coming to your house when you weren’t there — some regular stuff, you know,” his pause is an awkward one. “She kept calling me _Tyler_. Sorry.”

“She likes this name.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

A smoldering joint doesn’t let them take serious things seriously. Tyler sits up before promptly flopping down and beating the dust out of the lumpy mattress — there’s a handmade quilt; Tyler could lie there all night, sea-star like. And Josh lays next to him, only wearing his socks and briefs, the scent of hay and motor oil is intoxicating. Tyler kicks his shoe with his bare toe, getting it off the mattress. The ache in his fogged head goes astray.

“I was nine when I ran away,” Josh cackles. “I can’t believe I was so dumb. I didn’t want to go to Boy Scout camp so I was like _‘fuck ‘em all’_ , took my bag with cereal and cookies and came out of the door, leaving a very illiterate note on the fridge. I think I got lost as soon as I left the room, but I persevered. But I didn’t have a map; I didn’t even have a bottle of water with me, so my Dad found me six hours later, crying under the bridge. It felt like eternity, and you know what?”

Tyler doesn’t know, but he wants to know.

“What?”

“He was following me. All. The. Time. Can you imagine? He was hiding behind the cars and fences, and I didn’t even notice. He took me home. I thought I deserved a punishment, but it didn’t happen. You know, sometimes you don’t have to get punished to learn the lesson.”

Josh’s philosophy on high is the best and the most obvious piece of wisdom Tyler has ever received. Tyler doesn’t flinch when he finds their fingers intertwined, Josh’s hand is on top of Tyler’s open palm. They don’t move, looking at the ceiling and passing the stub of a joint a few more times.

“I broke my ankle when I was twelve,” Tyler drawls, his tongue is a slug. “It happened during my basketball game and it was _the best_ frigging moment of my childhood — I was limping with a cast on my leg, barely using the crutches.”

He pokes the joint into the wall just like Josh did.

Josh scrunches his nose up.

“I bet it sucked.”

“No, dude, you don’t understand — our father brought a TV from kitchen to my and Zack’s room — he’d never admit that he was happy, too; we could stay up late but we were still watching what _I wanted_. I didn’t have to go to basketball practices anymore, I didn’t have to shoot my hoops. It was _perfect_. I was just lying in bed and eating gummy bears all day.”

Tyler thinks that Josh is probably still sick, but his therapy has definitely worked — Tyler is lightheaded to the point Josh’s hand is the only thing that represents the real weight.

Tyler taps his fingers against Josh’s rough knuckles.

“Hey, Josh.”

“Hey, Tyler.”

“Your basement of adult life seems to be my favorite place from now on.”

“You are welcome.”

 

***

The consequences of the last night activities settle down on Tyler’s head, he’s drooling all over his forearm, the air is chilly. His mostly naked body isn’t covered with a quilt so he tries unsuccessfully to grab it. Tyler mewls, rolling over onto his back, his limbs are as bland as overcooked macaroni. His self-coordination is a failure; his hands sink in the mattress as he props himself up. Josh is a blurred figure; he’s sitting on the floor, still in his underwear, holding Tyler’s long-suffering hoodie and a needle with a long black thread.

Tyler can’t come up with anything better than a simple _why_.

“Because you need it,” Josh says.

“But do _you_ need it?”

Tyler needs to rinse his mouth to get rid of this _awful_ taste; he wipes the saliva off his cheek and stretches, giving up to a vertigo and black dots obscuring his vision. Josh bites the thread off and tosses the hoodie at Tyler — the sleeve is sewed neatly, the line of stitches is almost invisible.

Josh begins to dress up.

Tyler follows him, not risking to get up yet.

“What time is it?”

Josh glances at his phone.

“It’s like six-thirty.”

“Shit,” Tyler’s post-blackout vocabulary is poor. “Shit, shit, _shit!”_

He hisses, he stumbles over his jeans when he shoves his legs into them, then pulling his hoodie over his head. His teeth chatter, his nightmares never let him sleep for this long.        

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

One more nail in Tyler’s coffin.

“What did I say?”

Josh shrugs.

“Something about holographic Pokémon cards.”

“I want a new bike,” Tyler says. “Nevermind.”

His ears are clogged, but his mind is clean, his headache is gone. He should be thinking of cars and taxes, of the way his father is going to kill him once he gets home. Tyler sniffles his clothes.

“Do I smell like weed?”

“Everything smells like weed there, dude.”

Josh is right. But they haven’t smoked that much. Tyler hobbles to the staircase, pocketing his turned off phone and his keys; he’s so hungry his stomach produces lava instead of gastric acid.

“Have a decent breakfast, dude.”

Tyler doesn’t mind to be _this_ _dude_. 

Josh is oddly caring. Tyler should appreciate a friend with such a cool basement where he can spend the night stoned, where he can pass out wearing only his briefs — and nothing bad would happen.

Nothing.

 

***

Tyler carefully closes the door, the lock clicks, as loud as a gunshot. He prays to God he’ll be able to sneak upstairs without getting caught; Tyler doesn’t even breathe, he gnaws at his lips as he crosses the living room — his sister’s lounging on the couch, an open book is placed on the glass table in front of her. Tyler is a coward, his steps are feather-light, but Maddy opens her eyes as soon as his foot taps against the carpet.

“Tyler!” she whisper-shouts.

She jumps up, hugging him then hitting his chest with her fists, desperate; all he can do is shush her and kiss the top of her head. Maddy whimpers, then hiccups; she has to be at work by nine, Tyler remembers her schedule.

Her cheeks are wet and blotchy again, her tears seep through Tyler’s clothing.

“I’ve been waiting for you all night long.”

“I’m sorry, Mads.”

“Go to your room.”

Maddy doesn’t ask him to braid her hair.

Tyler is as silent as a shadow as he shuffles to his bedroom — he sees his father’s nose peeking out of the door crack; he hears the rumbling in Jay and Maddy’s room and there’s a sarcastic _‘finally’_.

Tyler is the one who has actually _slept_ through this night.

Zack is lying in bed facing the wall; Tyler can decipher his breathing as _‘you’re an asshole’_. Zack doesn’t say anything, throwing the blanket over his head; the sunlight makes Tyler’s head hurt again, his insides spiral up when he turns his phone on. It’s at 1%, the flood of messages and missed calls notifications comes up.

 **Dad:** _Call me, please._

 **Dad:** _Just tell me you’re safe._

 **Dad:** _Please, read it. I’m sorry._

Tyler has never felt this ashamed.

 

***

They don’t call him out for his behavior. Tyler is surrounded by stealthy bestial grins, a punishment is not necessary. Tyler has learned the lesson, it’s carved in his heart. He does the dishes after the breakfast, he cleans the countertop and scrubs the sink until it’s pristine. But it’s not enough, so he goes to the bathrooms, takes the cleaning products, makes their toilets and the tile in the shower squeaky-clean. He washes the windows and blows the leaves off the front yard, then joining his father and brothers on their duty. Josh is here, too, Tyler didn’t see him coming. They shake hands. Tyler remembers rubbing his palm while getting high and instantly feels queasy.

“Thank you for stitching up my sleeve.”

“Just wanted to flaunt my excellent skills.”

Josh doesn’t mention Tyler’s weakness.

They keep working on building up the wall together.

Two days later, Mrs. Flowers comes again. Josh bends over the fence next to Tyler, plaid shirt drenched in sweat as Tyler accidentally touches him.

“Hello, boys.”

She’s scanning Tyler’s face with her narrowed eyes. Tyler hasn’t shaved for a few days, hasn’t scraped the grazes on his chin.

“I should’ve used a concealer or how is this thing called?”

Mrs. Flowers purses her lips.

“I’m here to thank _Josh_ , his mother said he’s there.”

“I just changed the motor oil,” Josh is so unflappable, so you-don’t-have-to-worry.

Tyler bites his tongue not to remark that her young husband should’ve been the one to take her car to Duns’ auto repair service.

Mrs. Flowers nods and leaves.

They get back to work, Josh is as productive as possible and Tyler is wordless.

Tyler keeps seeing Mrs. Flowers out of the window, but she doesn’t bother the flow of their routine anymore. And the threat of getting visited by the social services dissipates like a puff of cigarette smoke.

 

***

Sleep deprivation makes Tyler reach his peak. He’s full of nervous energy, his muscles are ticking and twitching on their own accord, and his headache is a cherry on top. They’re having another busy day, full of the smell of acrylic paints and splinters in Tyler’s palms; he’s so dizzy he might lose his footing any second. He can’t wait until they’re done, he goes straight to the bathroom, opening the cupboard, one door is lacking the mirror, a white plywood panel exposed. It’s like a white flag, and Tyler needs his mother’s strong painkiller that would alleviate his suffering.

He opens it, almost going through withdrawal; there’s the first aid kit, but there are no any kinds of pills.

“No,” Tyler flaps his palm against the shelf blindly. “No, no, no.”

Headache slices his head like a knife. Insomnia is the next stop. Then, his nightmares would come true like the most vivid feverish delusion.

“Dad!” Tyler hollers, remaining mirror shakes. “Dad!”

Trust is damaged, Tyler is on suicide watch. He’s betrayed, and the insects are tickling the inside of his head. His father blocks the end of the hallway and Tyler is eager to move this mountain; his palm slams against his father’s torso, one, two, three times before he’s spitting out everything that’s been pent-up all day.

“You think I’m gonna do it? Gonna kill myself? That’s why you’ve emptied the shelf in the bathroom, do you think I wouldn’t notice it? You took away my _razor_ and there’s no rope in the garage, is this what I deserve?”

He’s screaming, causing a wave after wave, staggering backwards; he can’t look at the lights, he plucks their family picture off the wall and is about to hurl it to the ground. The frame scrapes his palm when his father snatches the picture out of his cramp-seized fingers and lays it onto the table.

“Calm down.”

“Don’t touch me,” Tyler barks out. “I need my pills back.”

“They’re not _your_ pills.”

“Trying to save me?” Tyler fleers. “You couldn’t save _her_ and now you think I’m gonna end up like that, yeah? You’re probably dreaming of getting rid of your mentally instable son just like you got rid of your wife, _am I right?”_

His father’s face is gray, made of wax.

“This is not you.”

“No way!” Tyler exclaims, his whole body spasms up. “You say you wish me the best, but when I’m trying to take a single pill, you’re hiding them from me, and now I’m stuck in this shit, just because you couldn’t _fucking_ control my mother’s actions. Well done, _Chris.”_

Anger obstructs his hearing when he adds —

“You made her go insane and now you’re doing this to me.”

Tyler jostles his father away once again; _closeness_ is a synonym of _danger_ , but when he steps away, a hand bundles the front of his hoodie, ramming him back so suddenly his knees buckle.

“Don’t you dare.”

The eyes in front of him are dark with the coals deep inside, and the grip against his neck is a noose.

“Come on,” Tyler hits his head on the wall purposely. “Make the rumors about us come true.”

His father’s hand is a balled up fist.

His unconscious body never feels the pain; Tyler is utterly _terrified_ , chills are running down his spine, bones ache in advance.

“Dad, no!”

Tyler’s being thrown towards the source of the wail. His brain’s snapping in and out, vision flickers when he spots their audience on the staircase.

“Dad, please, he doesn’t understand you!”

Hearing this from Jay is worse than getting punched in the face. Tyler’s kneecaps hit the floor, every move makes his head hurt more.

Maddy’s sobbing.

Zack’s jaws are clenched, fingers curled over the railings.

And Tyler is like their mother, scaring the daylights out of them way too frequently. Tyler is one of the insects from his head, his legs are all wobbly as he turns away from his _witnesses_ and heads back to the bathroom.

“Dad, don’t let him lock…”

Tyler locks the latch.

“…the door,” Zack finishes.

He’s pressing his ear to the crack, hearing their father say —

“He can do whatever he wants.”

 

***

Tyler turns the water in the shower on, getting inside fully clothed, his Vans get all soppy and his jeans stick to his wet body; the streams are cold — Tyler wants to keep his pain frozen. He opens his mouth, letting the jets hit the back of his tongue, almost pumping his stomach out of him; he hits the wall with his palm, then with his fist and then with his head, getting soaked to the bone. Jaded, Tyler stifles, his eyeballs are dry that portends the rupture of his capillary, his glance slides down, towards the drain; Tyler shoves his knuckles into his eyes, almost yelling when he sees what he sees.

“ _Please_ , no.”

There’s the eye. Red and alive, looking up at Tyler through the grid — Tyler _knows_ it doesn’t exist.

“Go away.”

The eye doesn’t go away, twisting and aiming its black pupil at Tyler, he’s glad he’s not naked there. The eye has _always_ been there, lurking in the sewage; Tyler gets the water in and out of his lungs, these splattering crystal droplets. The eye watches him as he grabs his toothbrush from the holder and crouches down.

The eye’s pupil widens in fright.

Tyler _knows_ what to do.

He shoves the handle of a toothbrush into the drain, the eye tries to dodge but Tyler is fast. He hits it, nearly breaking the shank, and the water hits his back, cracking against it while Tyler confronts his hallucination. Blood splashes out of the drain, painting the puddles and coloring Tyler’s shoelaces. He hits the nerve and there’s the gory back of the eye, then the iris again, half white now.

Tyler drops the toothbrush on a bloodied grid and huddles into the corner, tugging at the laces in his hood until it wrinkles against his face, he can barely breathe through his mouth, his head is a deadweight.

The water is only getting colder when he hears knocking on the door.

“Tyler?”

Tyler hugs his knees.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

He doesn’t want Maddy to sob again.

It takes more than a minute to urge himself to get up, the water is clean, there are no dead eyes in the drain. He picks up his toothbrush and gets it back into the holder.

He doesn’t need anything to kill him, his unfinished poetry doesn’t match his minds. His hood-trick was a magic one, but his head keeps pounding all the way he strips down to his underwear and throws his bunched up clothing into the dryer. He looks back into the drain before slipping out of his wet briefs and shivers, pulling the curtain. Tyler covers himself with a towel, opening the bathroom door just to find a t-shirt and his pajama pants folded neatly on the floor.

Maddy is a pure gold.

Tyler doesn’t meet his father when he goes to his room.

 

***

He sees his family’s graves, all five of them, their eyes decorate the tombstones instead of their photos. Their tombstones are bleeding, the eyes are turning and changing their color to red; corpses’ gnarled hands are scooping the ground, and Tyler is the only one who’s alive at the cemetery. Then, there’s his coffin, he’s getting sucked into it, his back hits the bottom of his grave. He can’t get out.

There are small yellow and red eyes all over his outstretched hands.

Tyler wakes up sick, not even sure if his dream was not one of his hallucinations. He’s thirsty, and Zack is snoring, and the room is pitch dark. His mental breakdown has only increased the pain, Tyler can’t open his eyes, he can barely get up and almost falls three times on his way to the kitchen downstairs. He is like a sleepwalker, cracking his eyelid open only to close it again. He finds the glass and fills it under the tap when the room lights up. Tyler quivers, turning around and opening his eyes properly; his eyesight is like a thermal imager, Tyler can only see the varicolored shapes and shades, but no real things.

His father is purple, and Tyler steadies himself against the sink, dropping the glass into it and gasping for breath.

“Hey, hey, it’s me.”

His father’s voice echoes in his head and Tyler is about to either cry or faint and he does, sliding to the ground as his father catches him under the armpits.

“I called the doctor, you can take one.”

Tyler licks his chapped lips, hypnotized by the orange bottle in his father’s palm. He’s an addict and he gets the water he needed, feeds himself a pill that goes down easily.

“You were screaming again.”

Tyler bends his knees and massages his temple.

“I’m taking you to the hospital if you don’t get better in the morning.”

The pill makes him drowsy again, he pushes himself up and makes his way back to his bed, his father follows him. Tyler doesn’t bring up the eye in the drain.

He changes his rubber band-hand instead.

 

***

Tyler doesn’t crawl out of his room until afternoon.

He doesn’t think, which is good. Thinking makes him hopeless. His siblings are sitting on the couch downstairs, Maddy’s holding a frying pan.

“Next time try to cook something that doesn’t look like a blended shit,” Jay points out.

Zack laughs, Maddy fumes. Their father isn’t there, Tyler wants to hide under the blanket. They look at him, worried, no one cheers anymore, their mood is spoiled. Tyler’s head is as empty as his stomach; he can take over his mind and body again, shapeless spots in the periphery are gone.

“Wanna sit with us?”

Tyler remembers everything.

“Breakfast?”

He hates this tone, hates Maddy’s sickly-sweet smile and the way Jay averts his eyes. Tyler ruffles his hair, not finding any pain there and sits down onto the couch; Zack slides across, away from him.

Tyler doesn’t apologize.

They’re trying to act as if nothing happened, but it’s just a failed attempt to cover blood stains on the wall — reds kill the whites. Maddy brings one more plate, scrambled eggs taste like superglue but Tyler eats, ignoring the way everyone watches him as he uses the fork. He tries to finish as quickly as possible, he’s not even hungry.

“We’re having a day off,” Maddy says. “Dad called the Duns even. He’s visiting our Mom today, and we’ve decided to stay here… with you.”

Three of them would definitely be able to restrain Tyler.

And she gives him a pill with a glass of water.

Tyler takes it, washing down the taste of a badly-cooked food and his meds, his father has probably called the doctor again.

“Thanks.”

“Get some rest.”

Maddy is the only one who talks to him.

Tyler feels dizzy.

 

***

Tyler wakes up to a pebble hitting the window, then another one. Tyler’s guest violates his nightmares-lacking euphoria; Tyler wraps himself into a blanket and bends over the windowsill, almost falling out of the room.

Below, _Josh_ waves his hand.

Tyler glares at him.

“Are you crazy?”

He wants to add that they don’t have money to repair one more window in case Josh breaks it.

“Nope,” Josh twirls his car keys around his finger. “I just wanna show you something.”

Tyler thinks he’s talking about getting stoned again.

“I don’t think I can.”

But Josh is noncommittal.

“Come on, get down.”

Tyler lets out a guttural groan but listens to him anyway. He finds his khakis he bought during his senior year of school, baggy and worn-out; he forgot his better pair in his dorm almost three thousand miles away. He goes to brush his teeth, he doesn’t floss. The last time he tried to floss, blood was everywhere. Josh wouldn’t appreciate his bloody gums. Tyler’s right eye is full of sand, the iris is crossed with a thick red streak, like an arrow track.

It’s enough.

Zack stops him by the front door, _‘where are you going?’_ is the only question, and Tyler replies —

“I’m gonna take a walk. With Josh.”

Zack is not a hindrance.

Tyler grabs his windcheater, shivering every second; he’s slept through the day and twilight is creeping down to the ground.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Josh is wearing the same plaid shirt and his faded blue jeans are cut to shorts; Tyler can’t tear his eyes away from bruises and scratches on Josh’s shins and ankles.

They go to the car when Josh informs him —

“I’m skateboarding.”

His elbow is bruised, rolled-up sleeves don’t cover it. Tyler wants to touch the scab.

“Really? Wanna show me a trick?”

“Sure!”

“Cool.”

Josh doesn’t have a skateboard in his pickup truck.

“How are you doing, man?” he asks.

“I relish my family reunion.”

Tyler doesn’t want to go anywhere but Josh doesn’t seem to care, the engine hums steadily.

“I couldn’t keep my mouth shut yesterday and my father was about to hit me. I had a panic attack in the shower,” Tyler almost relives it. “My head hurts and I’m a codeine-addict.”

“None of us is perfect,” Josh simply says. “I don’t think Chr— your Dad would ever hit anybody. He’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Tyler sighs. “Maybe.”

There’s something hard under his seat, it pokes Tyler through the upholstery; he shoves his hand into a jagged hole just to fish out a book. _Lectures on Quantum Mechanics_ , the title reads.

And Tyler says _wow_.

“I like your hobbies.”

“Thanks,” Josh pats the book like a cat. “This thing is too hard for my brain, but I’m trying my best.”

Tyler opens a random page, reads a few lines and carefully places it into the backseat, admitting that he didn’t understand a word.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Nothing more.

Tyler is waiting, looking out of the window as they’re driving out of the town. There’s a forest, then a highway again, and then there’s a neon sign, a favorite place of local couples.

A drive-in theater.

Today’s one of those Hitchcock nights.

A few cars occupy the zone next to the tents with snacks and drinks; it’s been awhile since Tyler watched a movie on a big screen. He used to work backstage, carrying cords and amplifiers but never having fun with the audience. Maybe a guy who’s working there tonight is one of those shy crew members who are about to freak out when somebody pays their attention on them.

Josh can read Tyler’s minds when he shudders at the purring of the Chevy in the front row.

“They don’t look at you.”

Josh’s blue Dodge is parked beside the farthest line, away from all the vehicles; he leaves Tyler alone to go and buy pop-corn and Tyler doesn’t feel that comfortable on his own.

“They don’t look at me.”

Large pine trees don’t have eyes or ears.

Josh comes back with two buckets of pop-corn and two cans of RedBull; it can screw up Tyler’s head even more. They climb into the bed in the back, turned to the screen and Josh takes a big throw-blanket from the backseat; Tyler’s nervousness kills the atmosphere, but he can trust the dude he’s once gotten high with.

Tyler sips on his RedBull, crunching on his pop-corn and Josh does the same, Josh’s face is emotionless and his nose ring glimmers in the starlight. The movie is black and white, and Josh is still too bright. Tyler has seen _Psycho_ before as a part of his pop culture course — the blood is monochrome, and Tyler has been there — he killed the eye in the drain, he’s a hero. On the screen, the woman dies in the shower, but this scene is more aesthetic than vulgar.

It’s a thing.

Tyler doesn’t look at her.

He can’t relax, he leans on Josh’s shoulder, because he needs to cover his bare legs; Tyler can’t be the only owner of this cocoon. Josh shoves him under the covers.

“Is this fine?”

“Sure.”

Tyler would’ve never reported Houston about the problem he’s got.

He just hates his blood circulation so, _so much_ ; it’s as awkward as when it occasionally haunts him in the mornings, but this time Tyler is completely conscious. Maybe his RedBull has done a thing, or maybe it’s all about breaking his isolation point, or maybe it’s all about his pants. Tight ones can cause an erection, he’s heard. But Tyler’s khakis aren’t skinny; here’s a solid lump and he cups his groin, gliding his fingers slightly against it. He needs to go home, he needs to tell Josh.

“What are you doing?”

Tyler sinks deeper under the blanket.

“Nothing.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

They sit for a while, looking at the frames changing on the screen.

Tyler fidgets all the time, it doesn’t happen this often when he’s awake. He’s abashed, his heart rate is a roller-coaster when Josh’s palm slowly covers his, tucked between his thighs as he tries to protect his privacy. Tyler doesn’t want to get remembered as a guy who got a boner while watching _Psycho_.

“He-e-y, are you jerkin’ off?”

With his eyebrows raised, with his hand roaming under the blanket, Josh changes his joking tone instantly, exhaling a slight _oh_.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Tyler blurts out.

“This happens,” Josh says matter-of-factly. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

 _This happens_ , and Tyler’s libido is low enough for him to be relieved realizing he hasn’t lost his sensitivity. He’s still getting reactions, and the blanket still covers his lap when Josh’s fingers hook the fly, it gets stuck on a loose thread, but Josh forces the zipper apart, ripping the bottom stop out.

Another _oh_ exhaled, Tyler prays mentally for it to stay just between them. He’s anxious about unfastening his pants when there are cars with people inside, one Jeep sways in a measured motion. But Josh is still focused on the movie as he pulls Tyler’s dick out through the flap in his boxer briefs. Tyler would never think the front-opening can be used like this. He nibbles his fist, nearly crashing his jaws on the bone, but he remains silent; Josh squeezes the precome from the urethra although it’s still too dry.

Tyler contemplates an undistracted Josh not to slip into the vortex of kaleidoscopic irises swirling like a merry-go-round.

“F-faster—”

Tyler tries to decide if coming in two minutes is less degrading than getting flaccid right in Josh’s hand; he’s experienced a sudden loss of desire mid-masturbation before — Josh doesn’t need to know. Josh might also think his purple and white briefs look _stupid_. Tyler’s stomach hurts, coiled up, the blanket is too scratchy for the tip of his dick; Josh’s hand gains a tempo — hastily, sloppily — not even remotely matching Tyler’s usual rhythm. He clamps his hand over his lips, snapping the rubber band on his wrist, and Josh huffs out a _‘hold on’_ as he clenches his fist at the base of Tyler’s dick; it’s leaking onto his underwear, his abdomen throbs.

Distress slows him down.

The screen throws viscous rays all over Josh’s face, he doesn’t even look at Tyler while his hand is working on getting him off under the blanket. A tree branch crunches in the dark; Tyler panics and kicks his legs, tipping the pop-corn bucket over, it scatters across the surface like knocked-out teeth. He’s edgy, on the edge again, and Josh releases his dick from the grasp before stroking it a few more times. Tyler is oversensitive as his balls tense up, he’s running out of battery; he nudges Josh’s shoulder, biting it as he comes with a convulsive jerk of his hips. His saliva soaks through Josh’s shirt, he’s devastated.

Their intimacy is nonchalant.

The sounds of the movie are too loud, a classic piece of art that covered them up. Tyler pulls away instead of diving into post-orgasmic cuddles, tucking his softening dick back into the flap.

Josh wipes his hand on the waistband of Tyler’s boxer briefs.

“Good movie.”

“Indeed.”

Tyler takes it like compensation from Josh for almost breaking his back.

 

***

Tyler pretends sleeping during the ride back home.

He ‘wakes up’ by the time Josh pulls his truck into the driveway, and Tyler can only manage a meek _goodbye_ before sprinting towards the front porch. Just like a teenager after the party, drunk, high and not so innocent anymore. His underwear is sticking to his hot body, he’s sweaty as he stands in a shaky light of the lamp above the door. It dangles on a thin chain, and Tyler scrutinizes his scruffy pants, figuring out if he’s gotten his sperm on them. He tugs his windcheater down to cover his screwed-up fly and tries not to start hyperventilating, failing at zipping it back up.

“Well, okay.”

He opens the door with his key, listening to the noises of the sleepy house. TV isn’t working, his father’s jacket is hanging on the rack, but he isn’t waiting for Tyler in the hallway.

Tyler has been blessed.

No flagellation tonight.

 

***

Josh doesn’t stop coming over and helping.

They don’t talk all the next day; Tyler curses himself for letting the strings tie him to everyone who gives him a lick of attention. His dick is a little sore or it’s just his preconception — Josh wasn’t _too_ gentle. Still together, still not mentioning their drive-in theater not-a-date, they change the plastering; this process is like a surgery. They paint the walls in the pantry and Tyler is about to get drugged by the stench, he gags into the crook of his elbow.

They buy a few more concrete slabs and bricks to make sure a thing they’ve once built won’t get destroyed again.

They keep getting the job done.

 

***

They’re getting high again, and Josh doesn’t try to get into Tyler’s pants. They’re sitting in the bed of Josh’s pickup truck, the tip of Josh’s joint is gleaming like a fallen star. They share it, but the clouds in Tyler’s lungs aren’t the clouds of stardust.

“I wanted to leave so badly I came back.”

He’s not interested in getting a desk job, studying economic and finance and burying his potential six feet under the ground.

“…and my parents didn’t dream enough, they wanted me to become a _man_ and help them raise my siblings, but… am I a great disappointment? Just because I can’t look older than I am, I’m…” Tyler coughs. “I’m still too childish, they say; I’m getting this stupid acne every summer and I can’t even grow a proper beard.”

Josh pats his back with the joint clamped between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“They’re dragging me back as soon as I’m starting my own life.”

“They’re just worried.”

“They’re afraid of me, I know. Afraid of my thoughts, of my actions, because I can still go insane, I need to meet a psychiatrist and take my meds. See? They weren’t ready for this. Weren’t ready for my nightmares and meltdowns. I wish I could be a better brother, better son, but I’m trapped.”

Tyler feels better when Josh takes him to the forest. They’re chatting and smoking, they only have one joint, but Tyler doesn’t want to play mind games.

“My friend Mark and I got really high one night and went to a local cornfield to watch the aliens. I don’t know why, but we were sure we’d catch at least one and get famous,” Josh breathes out a stream of smoke then sucks it back in. “The cornfield’s owner wasn’t that enthusiastic. The police wasn’t either.”

This situation is comical but also sad; Tyler wants the storm in his head to carry him to the cornfield.

“Where’s that friend now?”

“He left. Everyone is leaving.”

“But not you.”

Josh watches the satellite in the sky, mesmerized.

“I don’t know who I am, like, it’s hard to find yourself, isn’t it? I thought I’d spend my life working with my father; it’s rather stereotypical, but I feel like I have to do something, all the time — building, repairing, carrying bags and stuff. Sewing. I don’t know. It doesn’t take much of my time, but well… _Heck, it does_ , I’m not gonna lie.”

Josh is ranting.

“It helps avoiding the fights. I’m doing whatever they want while I’m living in their house, do you know this rule? They aren’t pressing, it’s just something wrong _with me_ , and… they know about the weed, they’re afraid I might start doing drugs for real.”

They’re being honest with each other only when they’re stoned.

“My father wanted a divorce, you know; I was five, he moved out and my mother was crying a lot. It’s been a month of throwing me back and forth. A _month_ , Josh. He didn’t have a woman, he kept sending money; but when I thought everything was over, he started visiting us again. Soon enough, Jay was born and my father said he loved us and he couldn’t live apart from us, and _all the kids_ —”

Marijuana is suffocating him, he can’t continue.

“Jay was one year old when she became officially insane.”

Josh brings the joint to his lips again.

“Sucks. I wanted a brother. Two sisters later I wasn’t too excited.”

“And?”

“And they’re exploiting me. Okay, I’m kidding.”

Josh can hide his inner grudges and Tyler puts everything on display; Josh can stay in the hometown because his parents need it and Tyler craves to run away. His mind will never set him free.

For the first time, Josh looks scared.

“Maybe I’m just bad at making decisions? What if I just _can’t?”_

The tale of his question drowns in the honking of a passing car.

 “Anyone from anywhere can do anything, Josh,” Tyler exhales the smoke. “Anyone.”

 

***

Their daily chores help settle everything down; their garage grows bigger, almost like a castle as they put the bricks onto their places. The evening seems to last longer than usual; Tyler goes to bed early but he can’t fall asleep. He’s alone in the room, Zack is spending the night at his girlfriend’s place and Tyler is happy for them. Also, lonely. He wants to talk to Maddy but hears her chatting on the phone and laughing; Jay is playing videogames so Tyler doesn’t want to bother him either.

He goes downstairs, he’s anxious as he spots his father sitting on the couch in front of the TV. They haven’t actually talked since Tyler’s last panic attack, but Tyler would catch him stand by his bedroom door every night.

“Hey, Dad.”

He’s learned it from Josh, starting every greeting with a _hey_ makes things easier. His father lowers the volume.

“Restless night?”

Tyler nods.

“Restless brain.”

It’s growing inside of him, almost spilling over the edge; moments of sanity make him feel guilty. There’s still enough space on the couch, but his father moves to the armrest, tapping his palm on the cushion. Tyler gets it and jumps over the back of the couch, landing onto it with as much grace as he can.

“ _Ohio State Buckeyes_ is playing,” his father says.

Tyler perks up.

“Really?”

It’s not even a live stream, it’s a VHS tape Tyler had watched so many times when he was thirteen, when he didn’t have to play anymore. He didn’t even think their old VHS-player was still working. And Tyler’s father is about to re-create a childhood he missed.

“They’d been pretty good that season.”

Tyler is too busy tilting at windmills.

“I didn’t make it to NBA.”

There’s a pack of beer underneath the couch.

“Does it make you upset?”

“I was happy to break my leg, actually.”

Tyler regrets it, instantly, peering into the screen and repeating a full court shot in his mind. He’s probably still able to make it. Tyler liked this tape when he was a kid, he wanted to be like one of those players. But his stomach hurt far too often, he felt woozy in the morning, he’s never been a warrior.

“Was the pressure… that big?”

Tyler laughs bitterly.

“Yeah, actually.”

“I’m sorry, I really am, Tyler,” his father takes a can. “We just thought it would work out.”

He offers one to Tyler and he shakes his head; he’s smoked the weed, he’s an _adult_ and that’s enough. Distraction never works, and the anger just coils inside of him, forming a lump in his throat before spewing out like a geyser of painful words. It hurts him for real, therapy is a temporary cure, it makes everything worse. No matter how Tyler tries to pull himself together, he breaks. He wants to snap, not looking at the beer in his father’s hand, he’s not allowed to drink.

“Non-alcoholic. Just for you.”

Tyler’s hysteria is gone without a trace.

“Thanks,” he takes it. It feels good pressed to his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

He takes a sip, it tastes gross but a bag of Doritos makes it better. He appreciates the way his father has bought a special beer _for him_ as if he’s been hoping that Tyler would come downstairs and join him.

“I’ve never been happier than the day I came back,” his father confesses, not watching the game anymore. Tyler watches it for the two of them.

He slurps on his beer, getting lost in the flashing images; he would remember every tiny piece of the game. He even curls the corner of his mouth upwards as his father throws his arm over his shoulder.

“My illness needs some treatment, I guess.”

It’s like a toast, so they raise their cans in the air.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

Tyler feels like he’s thirteen again.

 

***

Orange ball _tap-tap-taps_ against the asphalt, Tyler hunches his back and bounce-passes it to Josh. They’re shooting hoops in the backyard, Tyler has never had a friend to play with, and Josh isn’t that clumsy.

“You said you hated basketball,” Josh says. “We can do your 500 baskets together if you want.”

Tyler’s on forty-five now.

“I want.”

And they start, the ball flies directly into the basket; Tyler didn’t expect such a good throw from Josh so he applauses. Josh bows jokingly, then getting another pass from Tyler and throwing it repeatedly until it hits the backboard.

“It’s your turn.”

The ball _tap-tap-taps_ to Tyler, burning his palms like an energy sphere. Their garage is getting better, his mother is — Tyler is about to meet her renewed self, he’s about to stop hauling bricks every day; he wants to pack his bag already, get back to work and maybe start touring with Nick and his band. Tyler’s heart aches for his keytar he left there.

But Josh is gonna be his _local_ keytar.

“I’ll visit you on Christmas break.”

Tyler misses the basket.

Josh makes ten good throws in a row.

“Cool.”

He chortles then, and hands the ball over to Tyler.

“Really. It’s cool.”

Tyler looks at Josh’s bare shins lined with white and pink patches of skin under the flaky red crust. Skateboarding is tough — Josh has shown him a kickflip as he promised.

Now Tyler should not break his own promise.

 

***

 _One new message,_ Tyler’s phone informs.

Still sleepy after the dreamless night, he touches the screen.

 **_Mom:_ ** _you can start over, each morning. remember it._

He’s petrified; she’s finally learned how to use her phone and her thoughts, she’s allowed to communicate, and she’s about to get home next week. It’s been a long ride; and Tyler still doesn’t get expelled from college, he’s got a good reputation but his exams are about to start. He’s anxious, having to finish one more thing before he leaves. When he goes out of the house, his father and his brothers are working already, bricks and cement take their places in the wall; the only thing that stays undone is a roof. Tyler thinks he isn’t going to leave them until the garage is covered up properly. Their neighbors Ben and Michael are their free rescue rangers, they’re huge and they speed up the process; still teenage-like, Jay is getting muscles, he’s gonna grow bigger than Tyler one day.

Tyler is such a sleepyhead; he takes the gloves and goes to the ladder — Josh is here, he adjusts the goggles and gives him a highfive.

“Tyler! Breakfast!”

Beaming, Maddy runs to him with a plastic container in her hands; there are mashed potatoes inside, and Tyler can barely open his mouth when Maddy attacks him with a spoon.

“Hey, hey, easy,” his mouth is full, potatoes are hot, but he likes it.

Maddy wipes the box on her apron.

“I learned how to cook.”

And Tyler laughs and chokes on food when she feeds Josh then dashing to Zack and Jay and their father.

Josh brushes the pieces of potatoes off his chin.

“She’s growin’ up so fast.”

“She’s amazing ,” Tyler agrees.

He leaves the message unanswered.

 

***

“I’m so happy to see you again.”

She looks younger than she is, wrinkles and dark circles are forgotten; she hugs all of her kids, her husband. They were cleaning the house while their father was taking their mother back — they made a WELCOME HOME cardboard sign they’re holding now. Maddy cooked the dinner while Tyler, Zack and Jay were mopping the floors and killing any signs of their bachelor life in the house.

“I’m so, so happy.”

Josh is here, too, he checked the engine of their car again and made the stereo system work. Josh is about to sprint away when Tyler’s mother goes towards him, but she just utters —

“Thank you, _Josh_.”

“I’m, uh,” Josh turns pale, then red. “Always glad to help you.”

She remembers Josh’s name, she’s sane. She needs regular specialist’s appointments and a different set of pills, but she’s not dangerous. Her moves are careful as if she’s afraid to break a friendly atmosphere, she smiles at everyone and the color of her eyes is not the color of a murky sky anymore.

“Kelly,” Tyler’s father hugs her, her face is pressed to his chest. “My Kelly, welcome back.”

 _‘Welcome back to your mind, Mom,’_ Tyler thinks.

They’re just throwing the curtains over the shapes of the beasts in the dark, pills are nothing like silver bullets for werewolves. But maybe the beasts are blind. Tyler looks around, but their father is talking to Josh, and Maddy has already dragged their brothers inside the house. Mother’s hands caress Tyler’s shoulders, her glance is a heavy weight on his chest.

Funny houses are never _fun_.

“They made me do it. I can see them, too, they are real, glowing eyes, Tyler, you are a special boy.”

No one was supposed to know this, this is not a relapse. This is just Tyler’s secret. He wants to ask _why_ , but he doesn’t.

“They were there that night, on the wall, on the ceiling, I just wanted to _protect you_ from them, I couldn’t let you see them too, but it was too late. I wanted to be free. I want _you_ to be free, Tyler,” she locks her hands around his waist, not letting him go.

Tyler hasn’t had any nightmares this week; now he’s sure they’re about to come back.

“Mom,” his voice is scratchy. “Do you see them now?”

She shakes her head.

“No, dear.”

The darkness grows bigger.

It’s a closed circle.

 

***

Tyler stays home for one more week. He meets a psychiatrist in his hometown and she asks him a traditional _‘what bothers you?’_

“The price of this session,” Tyler responds.

Her smile is charming, she starts talking to him about domestic and sexual abuse and _‘sometimes your brain blocks out traumatic memories’_. Tyler says his _no_ , and she doesn’t believe him, she wants him to remember _who did it_.

Tyler leaves.

 

***

They go to the church together because it makes Tyler’s mother feel better.

They find another specialist in Berkeley; it’s their family decision and it’s clear that Tyler is about to get the pills prescribed — he’s obligated to take pictures of all the papers and bottles and send them to his father.

“You need somebody to control the intake of your meds.”

Tyler has never tried to overdose. He’s frustrated.

“I can do it myself.”

They believe him.

They make the set of rules: _take your pills and never try to ignore our calls because if you don’t answer on the fifth ring, we’re on our way to take you home._

Tyler doesn’t want to lose his job and his new life.

“Sure,” he swears. “I’m gonna call you every day.”

His mother sheds happy tears as she hears so.

 

***

Tyler’s bag is still heavy.

His family is on the front porch, shaking hands, hugging him and wishing him good luck. Tyler’s father offers to take him to the airport, but Tyler wants to go to the Duns first. He still doesn’t have Josh’s number, only mentioning he’s going to leave; Tyler is not an idiot, he still has a chance. The rooftop of the garage is flat and shiny, Tyler wants to check his pantry-room and get out of the window to sit on the sun-bathed tiles. It’s sadly metaphoric, they had to get rid of something old to start something new — and now they’re starting with changing themselves. Tyler hasn’t changed his rubber band for two weeks.

He almost falls over the railings when he sees Josh’s blue Dodge rounding the corner; Tyler looks at his family apologetically.

“I think Tyler has a driver,” Zack smirks.

Tyler punches him in the shoulder.

“I still have like four hours,” Tyler picks at his nails. “You can drive there later.”

His mother is by his side.

“Good idea. We have time to bake some cookies for you.”

There’s no doubt they’re gonna follow him later, but he still has a thing or two he left unsaid. He runs, and Josh’s car beeps, greeting him. Tyler throws the door open, exhaling a _‘hey’._ He expects a _‘hey’_ back.

But he gets a different line.

“You’re not gonna believe me.”

Josh looks amazed, his eyes get squinty when he grins.

“What?”

“I applied to Boston University. I’ve been self-educating for over a year, and — the book you found. It helped,” Josh slaps the steering wheel with his palm. “They needed more students and I passed the exams and got on this train, can you believe? I’m moving out next week, I’m about to get a part-time job in Brookline and become an actual engineer.”

Tyler bites his fingernails nervously.

“Do you want to have some coffee to celebrate it?”

They still have time.

“Sure.”

Boston University is a seven-hour flight away from the University of California, but well, bless an ubiquitous Skype and other services. Tyler’s inspirational speech has worked, it seems.

“We…” Tyler falters. “Actually, we need a sound engineer or _anybody_. We need more crew members.”

Josh winks at him.

“Or we can start our own band.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Today’s another big day of big news; the sun’s rising up, and they’re two local dreamers with unlimited powers. The road disappears behind, and Tyler wants to enjoy this short moment of happiness; he needs to get his loud thoughts clinched.

Josh talks about the weather in California.

Tyler turns the car radio on.

**Author's Note:**

> as promised, 95% song references and 5% donnie darko references.  
> \---  
> searein, thank you for that drive-in theater scene~  
> PantaloonWarrior, thank you for your priceless advice~  
> \---  
> [art](http://searein.tumblr.com/post/178183659417/inspired-by-bright-and-early-for-their-daily) by searein
> 
>  
> 
> [moodboard](http://i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky.tumblr.com/post/178084070771/bright-and-early-for-their-daily-races-joshler)
> 
>  
> 
> [one more thing](http://i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky.tumblr.com/post/178084067616/bright-and-early-for-their-daily-races-it-was-the)


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